#◈ — ic; farkas

[augment-techs]

[decidentia]

I’ve been bursting with muse, but unable to get a moment to focus on writing. Luckily, I have no plans tomorrow – zero, zilch, nada, nothing – for the approx. four hours between my shift finishing and my pottery class starting. I plan to be here, be queer, and finally get some ic content out. 😤

[austerulous]

◈   @ariveth  //  cont.

Ariveth had wormed her way in, making him itch in places he could not scratch.  She knew his limits, his tender points, she knew how to get him to bare his teeth, to roll over, to show his belly.  Farkas would never deny her.  On some level, he understood the power she held, but still he could not help but bristle with anger, that fury hallmarked by a splintered ache at the centre of his chest.  Inside, the wolf was all fangs and raised hackles.  It showed in his manly form, it robbed of his coherence.

“Fuck off.” 

Predictably, following the pattern of their past disagreements, Ariveth leaned closer, unimpressed, unafraid of his fraying temper and the deepening scowl that darkened warpainted features.  Insufferable, inciteful woman – yet one stitched into his heart, laced in tender, sinuous feelings.  How quickly his anger spilled into something else, readily redirected by the elegant arch of her spine, the choreographed flutter of eyelashes.  His diseased blood already ran hot, each furious breath catching between his teeth.  Control fractured and, in that instant, he reached for her, seizing her by the jaw.  A growl emanated from somewhere deep in his chest, reverberating in his throat, as the callused pad of his thumb swiped furiously over Ariveth’s rude lips, resolve ruined by their sly softness, by her knowing smirk.

“Fuck.”

[daedriic]

❈ ❰❰ @austerulous ─ 𝐅𝐀𝐑𝐊𝐀𝐒 // s.c. ❱❱

ㅤㅤㅤ❝ WELL, YOU'RE A TALL ONE, AREN'T YOU? ❞ He could be just what she needs to solve her current predicament. She'd come to Whiterun in disguise, passable as some dainty noblewoman; perfect for moving around in public without drawing unwanted attention. But it's a disguise that would be easily blown if she had to resort to violence. So why not have someone else handle that part for her? ❝ I could use some muscle. Care to help me with a little problem I'm having? I'll pay you well for your aid. ❞

[amplifying]

for @austerulous.

The afternoon sun gazed lazily upon Skyrim. Light tumbled betwixt branch after branch, leaf after leaf, leaving dabbled illuminance in its wake. That brilliant hue brought renewed life to the trees of yesteryear that laid sprawled upon the forest floor; knotted, gnarled remnants of their former glory. Trunks once a great girth now thinned, branches forming twisted patterns and starved of foliage. Carcasses of eggs scattered the surrounding dry nirn. Birdsongs came in lulls, then bursts, melodies woven betwixt silence serving to be as beautiful as any mortal songstress.

The forest spoke of life and death, how they gnashed each other’s tails and spun over and over—destined to be forever connected. It served to be sanctuary for both. Some hid from the evils of Tamriel beneath the watchful eyes of pine trees, while others lurked in that same trees’ shadow, whetting their blade with the spine of a rock.

Baptiste knew well both sides, for he’d partaken in both.

He’d opted to set up reluctant camp some ways in, make use of what materials he had left. Then, after ridding himself of whatever consumables that’d been forsaken in the pits of his satchels, he would replenish in the nearby Whiterun. As hands sought to pin down what goods actually lay squished, seated upon a fallen trunk that’d long since been kissed with blooms of moss, he heard plotting. Whispers carried upon the wind, strangely loud in the absence of fauna lilts. Baptiste’s brows furrowed. Instinct swung and hit him, hard and fast. The satchel tumbled from his fingertips, landing with a feeble thud, and a wave of magicka engulfed him.

He became invisible.

Or, well, almost invisible. The spell constantly refracted light, deflected it off and around his person; at the right angle, with the right scrutiny, the halo of his body would be visible.

As it turned out, they had no intentions engaging him. Footfalls hurried past, kicking nirn up and, from the bowels of forestry, they emerged as malice personified; a throng of individuals, mostly those of Nordic heritage, wielding a rainbow of weaponry. Their approach was far from subtle—just how they liked it—and, like a swarm, they descended upon this smaller group of warrior-likened folk, intending to strip flesh from bone, life from eyes.

Baptiste heard their war cries. It was hard not to. Admittedly, the sound of battle was far from unfamiliar to his ears. An ugly lullaby from his youth. He watched them flit outside the sanctuary of the forest, barrelling with all intents of a pack of wolves, and observed the way the warriors unsheathed their weapons without second thought. Clearly, they knew each other, and were at oppositions with one another.

Slowly did Baptiste approach as kisses of metal on metal filled the air. Again and again did their swords clash, spitting venom—sometimes coherent and sometimes gibberish—at the other. The farmer that’d been in converse with the warrior group, turned tail and fled. His legs were thin, his body scraggly; he were to be too slow for those young and taut with muscle. One of the forest-folk peeled away from the battle and hounded the farmer, a wolf unto a fawn separated from its mother.

Fuck.

Baptiste redirected and broke off into a sprint. His spell started to slip. Flakes of his person peeled free. He would’ve used telekinesis to pin the assailant’s feet unto the farm’s floor, but concentrating on a second spell while running was asking for a backfire… Thankfully, he was fast.

But was he fast enough?

[acuityfeed]

  “&– -Ugh- I was going to kill them. I have a gem to fill....” // @austerulous liked for a oneliner starter

[nooklingposting]

I personally think Farkas has a crush on the player. Everyone just sees him as an ice-brain, not smart enough, and have done his whole life. Even some of the newer companions can be heard talking back to him. But we don't.

It seems like we're special from the start, he's nicer to us than any of other the companions right from day one. We see a softer, friendlier side to Farkas (eg: 'I hope I didn't scare ya' being his first concern after being surrounded by enemies) - we never really hear him be so friendly to the other members (think the training conversation with Torvar), and that's why we fall for him.

I think he'd be shocked if we chose to marry him. Yeah he shoots his shot, but like I said, he's used to everyone seeing him as an oaf. Then here we are, the Harbinger, showing him the same kindness and emotional investment that he gave us in the beginning. He deserves it.

I just think he's neat.

[austerulous]

Eros. Hushed though it was, the name flashed on Farkas’ periphery. For a moment, he clung to it – but like any silvery, slippery thing, it did not remain within his thick-fingered grasp for long. It evaporated, escaping all recollection the moment that velvet voice tightened into a tone of stern indignation. It was a cold fury, razor-edged, delivered with absolute poise that was far from the lip-splitting punches thrown in Jorrvaskr.

A hundred was a great deal, Farkas knew, though he did not precisely understand the number’s weight and measure. His only point of comparison was the legendary Ysgramor and his Five Hundred Companions – but that was a hazy image in his mind’s eye, a great sea of faceless warriors. What was clear, even to Farkas’ unscholarly mind, was that a long line of his predecessors had been born squalling, blood-slick, and driven into their cradle of dirt in the time this seemingly ageless creature had been alive.

Farkas exhaled through his nose, emptying his lungs, rendering himself hollow in his defeat. A tongue was a blade, and his was dull. Although cowed, flayed by words, he offered no apology – instead he watched the vampire darkly, aware that they were now sealed inside the apothecary. Entombed, together.

“Bad bones. Bad joints.”

His lip curled wolfishly, revealing the pale glint of a canine. A bestial, instinctive response. When Farkas caught himself, he smoothed his expression into one that was more deadpan, less defiant. Being at the lower standing in his pack, he was well acquainted with compliance and contrition. This ancient man, with his perfumed countenance, likely thought of him as little more than a sulky, errant child.

“Knees, hips, shoulders, wrists. They’re worse in the cold, but ache even in summer. I’m tired of hurtin’ and poultices only go so far.”

Mirvon shambled off; though, his gangling legs served to only get him so far, allowing the nord's latter quip to grace veiled ears. A wince curled his features, his fingers, leather squelching as concern lapped eager at his thoughts.

"Eros won't like that," he murmured to himself, beelining for a room at the end of the stone-hugged wall. There he would lay low until beckoned back.

Indeed, did Erosandros bristle.

"You think yourself amusing, to slight my clinic. Yet, you have come here with intent, a hope, perhaps. Something that I ought alleviate or prevent. You are not a local, so I can only presume you came here with purpose; circumventing the healers that are stationed towards the front of the city heart is not an easy feat. You have heard of my skill, whether directly or in passing." A flourish of his hand, and the front door jittered and stiffened, frozen in place; shushing the danger of those who lurked just outside. Funny, how powerful creatures could see exposure as more threatening than one another. "Let me put things into perspective. How old are you, wolf? Late twenties? Maybe mid-thirties? I have lived a hundred of your lifetimes. I have been healing many of those years. Do not insult my integrity."

Olive hands flattened over the front of his black, double-breasted tailcoat, as though to soothe whatever hackles were raised by the comment.

"I reiterate: how may I help you today, sir?"

[mothzarellaman]

so a few days ago, i shared an image of miraak suddenly appearing near whiterun and beating a sabre cat to death.

this game, besides like. unofficial skyrim patch and a hair mod, is unmodded. he just did this.

but allow me to continue the tale through discord screenshots. A more proper retelling is below the read more.

So, I was deciding to walk across one side of Skyri

m to another, specifically in search of the Dragon Priest mask totem/holder thing. (I found it later but that's irrelevant) So I began the walk from the Serpent Stone to Falkreath. As I was walking, I saw someone fighting a sabre cat in the road. That someone? Miraak.

He's punching the poor thing to death, doing very little damage in the process because he's probably a limp noodle let's be real. It's unclear why he's here. And why he's punching the sabre cat. But he wins. And walks away.

So what do we do? We follow him. (We being me and Farkas). We cannot talk to him, pickpocket him, or damage him in any other way. No shouts, nothing. He is walking very pointedly along the road, to some unknown destination. Eventually, we see another sabre cat. And Miraak? Well, he locks in. Lightning goes flying as he kills it. No punches this time, just lightning. It's unclear why he didn't do this earlier. He is very aggressively shouting, to no effect. Farkas runs to help him.

Once its dead, he keeps walking. This continues for a while. Occasionally we find already dead goats. He loots them. I steal a goat leg from a corpse and he sadly walks away. I kill a goat for him. He throws a tantrum and jumps into the river. He emerges and he's normal again. We continue walking and eventually meet a group of revelers. They offer my Dragonborn (Pan) some alcohol. We say yes. Miraak? He doesn't say a word. He keeps walking. He fights a few bears. We have an immortal bodyguard, apparently.

Eventually, I realize we're heading towards Windhelm. So I wonder if he's trying to go back to Solstheim. Surely, he's going to go through Windhelm? No. He is not. He completely skips the bridge, and instead keeps walking, and eventually stops at the ice floes across from the Windhelm docks. He has not said a word.

if you read this far enjoy a screenshot and the meme it got compared to

[hircines-hunter]

WIP Wednesday

Tagged by @skyrim-forever I have a lot of WIPs but it’s all spoiler. I even have to edit this part here. ;v; anyways. Please enjoy! (I’ll get to reading when I can. I can barely concentrate on this here lol.) this also includes one of my favorite SKÁLD songs. This is the ending of chapter 5 for Hunt of the Blood Moons. Sifkni is in the Hunting Grounds. So….. yeah!! >:3c and have a wip art of Saoirse in her Wereleopard form!

Gonna tag @umbracirrus @thequeenofthewinter @madamefluffnstuff @bougainvillea-and-saltwater @oblivions-dawn

@pocket-vvardvark @theoneandonlysemla @mavariel @illumiera and anyone else I also feel like I forget people and it’s not intentional! Please feel free to tag me back!

They walked through the endless darkness. Sifkni looked around. They were so far from their first fight. So far from [Redacted]. So far from [Redacted]. [Redacted] continued walking. She was about to open her mouth and speak when a familiar melody reached her ears. She let go of Farkas’ hand and ran past [Redacted], following the sound. Tears welled in her eyes when the smell of wildflowers and wheat fields hit her.

‘Sól er skýja skjöldr ok skínandi röðull. Ísa aldrtregi, rota siklingr*.’ A soft voice sang in the distance, growing louder and closer with each footfall.

The words were ancient. Nordic. About winter's end. About Yule. A song her mother sang frequently for her.

Sifkni joined in and sang softly. ‘Þá man sól renna upp, þá man sól renna upp.’ She sang louder as she got closer. ‘Þau munu líta til sólarinnar, rota siklingr**.’ She sang between loud sobs. A familiar figure sat on a cliff, overlooking the forest below. They silhouetted against the red moon. Sifkni knew it was her.

Her mother.

Ilfhil.

The sun is the shield of the clouds and a shining light. Destroyer of ice, master of the wheel.*

Then the sun will rise, then the sun will rise. They will look at the dawn, master of the wheel**

[decidentia]

◈   @shellcrack  //  starter

Cutting through the resinous scent of pine needles, through the earthy notes of rotting mulch and fungus, came the reek of blood. Its coppery, metallic tang filled Farkas’ nose, strong enough to coat the back of his throat, to lie thick on his tongue. A red ribbon was what pulled him through the fringes of woodland, deeper into the forest’s feathered heart.

Mankind could not help but leave a mark. A desolation of tree stumps, like coarse stubble, greeted him as he approached the isolated homestead. Pens that had once housed livestock now guarded their remains. Putrid and bloated, the stiff-legged, round-bellied creatures lay in their own filth, oozing from every orifice. The cool light of Farkas’ pewter gaze traced the rims of crow-picked eye sockets, quick to focus on the door which hung open in dark promise. Blood formed a lacquer – so dark it was almost black – that drip-dried down the front steps, staining the grain and soaking into the pores of the wood.

This scene of humble domesticity had been the site of a slaughter. Farkas was no stranger to horror, but still he felt a kernel of dread sprout in his chest. Boots creaked and dove-tail joists whined as he mounted the steps, congealed pools crackling beneath his heavy footfall. Being both a monster and a monster of a man, he was too big for homely spaces; he was forced to duck his head to enter the cabin, the ruin inside reflected dully in his steel breastplate. Sparse furniture had been reduced to splintered kindling, and all was dusted by the ash and cinders that spewed from the cold fireplace. Shutters were closed, the only light that entered the space pushed in behind him, casting his shadow tall and broad.

A massacre. Bodies pulled apart. Two – Farkas counted – identifying them by the ribcages that yawned open like bear traps, vomiting their innards. Maggots writhed ecstatic in gnawed flesh while their blue-sheen parents buzzed black and fat, rubbing their hands together in filthy glee, feasting on the splatters of gore that painted the vaulted ceiling. At the stink, he closed a hand over his nose and mouth, that cloying decay softened by the leather that covered his palm. No lives to save here, no murderer to apprehend, not even an unspoiled larder to raid. He turned as if to leave.

And then he heard it. The softest of whimpers, the rapid tick of a frantic heartbeat. Heaped in a corner, gore-flecked sheets heaved and mewled. Farkas thought of a she-cat’s nest, of the helplessness of newborn kittens, all milky breath and dandelion-fluff fur. Through the tangle of torn linen, he glimpsed birch-pale limbs and wild brown hair. The shroud slipped lower, revealing impossibly wide and round blue eyes, glassy in terror, red-rimmed from long-spent tears. A girl.

Farkas approached, looming over her before he thought to make himself small, to settle onto one knee. He reached out a gauntleted hand, proffering it to her as though she were a kicked stray, a hag-ridden mare.

“Easy, child.”

[austerulous]

◈   @ramblingsofamoonwatcher  //  cont.

As Hithfaeril spoke, Farkas watched her lips.  To be sure he hadn’t misunderstood, to be sure he hadn’t misheard.  Dubbed Icebrain by his shield-siblings – for a reason, he supposed – he made efforts to focus, to take each word she uttered between his teeth.  Their hands remained linked throughout, hers tremulous as a wild bird held fast in a fist.  His forge-callused thumb swept over her knuckles again and again, politely ignoring the vice grip she had on him.  Poetic in speech as ever, Hithfaeril’s meaning was clear: she was with child.  She was carrying their child.

“By the gods…”  And again, more emphatically:  “By the gods.”

Everything he could have hoped for was before him.  Farkas kissed her and kissed her and kissed her, showering her mouth, the tip of her nose, her cheeks, her jaw.  The large hand not held captive in her own slunk down between them, settling low on her abdomen.  Somewhere beneath his palm, beneath the cream ripples of her nightgown, new life sparked in an undead womb.  He had seen Hithfaeril at her worst, when her body recalled what it would have been without the intervention of Orstun.  A cradle of rot, overripe and ruinous.  All the sweet-sour trappings of death.

It did not matter that Hithfaeril occupied a bosky place between life and death.  It did not matter that he housed a beast.  The last time they had been together, he had been drunk on the scent of her, spun to a new level of irresistibility.  Nothing had existed outside of them, no need was greater than that to have her on his tongue, pulled flush to his heat.  How gracefully she had indulged his affections, the roguish dance of rough fingertips tracing her waist, grabbing at her hips, palming her breasts at every opportunity.  They found themselves intertwined in the familiar hollow of her bed, at the kitchen sink, on mossy grass of the garden, with the scent of lavender in their noses.  Only when Hith began to tire, to drowse, did Farkas relent.

A fullness flooded his chest and squeezed his heart that, for once, had nothing to do with the wolf that ran restless in his blood.  Farkas drew back, just enough to rest their foreheads together, the mercury of his eyes pricked with tears.  He had not known if it was possible, had never dared to dream.  There would be time to fret later, to worry about the nature of his lycanthropy, about the likelihood of a body in constant flux carrying to term.  There would even be time for him to take a boyish sort of pride in the compliments she paid him for his appetite, his virility.  For now, he kissed her temple, whispered what he needed her to know against the sheet of her dark hair:  

“I will take care of you both, I swear it.”

[daedriic]

❈ ❰❰ @austerulous ─ 𝐀𝐄𝐋𝐀 // s.c. ❱❱

ㅤㅤㅤ❝ YOU WEAR THE NIGHT WELL. ❞ Many associate the shadows with thieves and assassins, forgetting that the hunters find just as much use in silence and darkness. ❝ Your quarry went west. It's probably reached the river by now. ❞ She'd seen the stag, a great best in its own right, rush through the bounds of the forest towards the plains. ❝ Something startled it. ❞

[whitegoldtower]

Skyrim Characters and their vape flavours of choice (someone put me down)

Ondolemar: either pineapple ice lost mary or the orange gummy bear lost mary. Dude is a posh roadman with his rolex, military shave, flawless skincare and designer tracksuit

Ancano: juicy peach lost mary or strawberry ice lost mary. He’s girlypop but will hide his vape because he doesn’t want to be made fun of for having pink on his person. Even though he’d 100% rock the juicy couture velour outfit and main as princess peach in mariokart.

Elenwen: coconut melon elf bar. Girlie would rather be sipping pina coladas in Alinor’s top resorts and spas. Her nails match the colour of her vape. Alternatively, she’d get the mojito elf bar thinking it would taste like rum. Disappointed when it doesn’t.

Serana: maryjack kisses lost mary or cherry ice lost mary. No explanation needed.

Cicero: the disgustingly sweet flavours like the cotton candy ice (pure fucking sugar) or the immensely artificial blue razz / mr blue lost mary. As if the little guy needs any more sugar in his system.

Teldryn Sero: buys the really shit knock off lost marys, and only ever gets flavours like ‘spearmint’ or ‘cream tobacco’ 😩 can’t handle having anything that doesn’t hit his chest like a normal cigarette, and will constantly complain about how much he misses smoking.

Vingalmo: will deny that he vapes with every fibre of his being but will freak out when he loses his cranberry raspberry cherry elf bar in the coffin lining. If there’s fruity fog coming out of one of the coffins in Castle Volkihar, it’s not ‘atmospheric ambience’, it’s Vingalmo hotboxing his bed.

Garan Marethi: has a heavy duty non-disposable vape and only ever vapes one flavour because it’s the only one he can stand: vampire vape blood sukka.

Neloth: also has a heavy duty vape but has these horrific mystery flavours like “jungle juice” or “pinkman” or “unicorn shake” and each new flavour he puts in the tank (without replacing any of the coils) is a worse, more burnt, more artificial smelling mess than the last.

Farkas: if it doesn’t smell like he wants to eat it, he doesn’t want it. Only gets flavours like “banana milkshake”, “caramel waffle” or “red velvet cake”

[decidentia]

◈   @pohlepen said: ❛ [ WET ] : our muses find one another in a torrential downpour of rain, both soaking wet. (for farkas 💖) ❜ //  sexual tension prompts.

Homeward bound, the battalion trudged through the valleys and mist-veiled fens, mizzle bleeding through swathes of chainmail, drenching their miserable undershirts.  Mud clung to their boots, sucking the war-weary men earthward, begging them to make their home in filth, to bed down with their decaying brethren.  Darkness crawled over the eastern horizon, diluted sunlight concentrated on the tips of spears, on the combs of helms, flashing like so many dull scales.  Still they marched, his bannermen, towards that stark silhouette.  The castle – their beacon – rose as if from the lake, an ominous and jagged silhouette.  Seat of the king, home of Vilkas the Wise.

Prince Farkas was not known for wisdom, but instead for preternatural strength, for unwavering loyalty.  Beast of the northern territories, he loomed head and shoulders above his men, the executioner of those who opposed his brother’s rule.  Once proclaimed as the Wolf-hearted, now he was simply called the Wolf, as if his heart had been carved out of him.  Farkas supposed that it had.

Wrought-iron gates yawned open and a chorus of shouts welcomed them home.  Good and gentlefolk ushered them into the gatehouse’s open mouth, into the walled embrace of the courtyard.  There, at its cobblestone heart she stood, unsheltered, unbothered by the deluge, no longer a soaking mist but falling in sleet-like rolling curtains.  It dripped from their noses, from the scruff of his droplet-beaded beard, from the wetted ends of their rain-darkened hair.  His brother’s wife.  Defiant, the colour of flame.

“My Queen.”

A change in the wind, and the stabled horses grew unsettled.  Hooves scraped and a handful of shrill whinnies cut through the hum of eager reunion.  Not even the downpour could wash away the stink of slaughter, the blood that stained steel, buried deep in the treads of their boots, beneath blunt nails.  Victory’s perfume was foul.

They stood in the eyes of many, and Farkas gave no sign that, on the night before his departure, he had knelt before her most irreverently, feasting on married flesh, lapping at her arousal like a dog, his tongue coated in her honey.  His brother’s wife, but she permitted no guilt, no second thought, no hesitation to take root.  Perhaps that was why she had mounted him, ridden him as though he were a wild-eyed palfrey, blinding him briefly to the magnitude of their shared sin.  Nothing had existed beyond the parting of her pale thighs, the unsanctified union of their flesh, the sight of the field that drove itself upon the plough.  Rather than slaking, she had stoked his curiosity, and whetted his monstrous appetite.  Not even weeks at war could rinse her from the shallow waters of his mind.

Shale-coloured eyes scraped over the ramparts and turrets, tracing the edges of the sodden royal banners that hung limp and heavy.  It seemed King Vilkas was not in residence.  His gaze slunk back to his unattended queen and, out of respect for her, Farkas removed his helm, long dark hair plastered to the edges of his broad face, painted in rainwater and sweat. The chill gnawed at them both, sinking its dull teeth into exposed skin – but there were secret places where the woman that stood before him remained warm.  Farkas hungered for them, desiring to bury himself there.

Instead, he wrested a burlap sack from his shoulder, one which had been slung alongside the sword almost as tall as he.  Hessian was wet through, as were the bag’s unhappy contents.  Farkas tipped them out – two heads, tar-dipped and grimacing, rolled across the stone.  Auden the Elder, and Alfred the Younger, enemies of the kingdom no longer.

[austerulous]

◈   @oneiira said:   ❛ 🗑️ shro’ka to farkas!! ❜  // texting starters.

— 🗑️ A TEXT THAT WASN’T SENT.

[ text : furbaby ]   i wanna talk to you about somethings. nothin bad i promise. just scary. form for me anyway. yk im more puss than you. can you come over tonite?

After deleting the above, he instead sends:

[ text : furbaby ]   do you wanna come over tonite? im makin nachos. x